The Long Road Home
by jakartainn
Summary: AU- Castiel is a servant in the King's household.  Prince Dean is the King's oldest son.  Big adventure ensues, complete with drama, daring, and whump.  Not slash as of yet. I'm on the fence as of now.  FIRST FANFIC EVER! Be kind- or don't.  Surprise me.
1. A Penchant for Planning

Castiel ran from the bailey on the morning of the feast. He carried gently but tightly in his apron all of the eggs from the coop. Darting through long corridors with vaulted ceilings, he slid deftly past grooms and ladies maids, transporting his precious cargo to the vast kitchens.

As he raced the final stretch to the end of the long hallway that lead to the fragrant arena, he closed his eyes for a moment and said a small prayer that the Mistress of that realm would be absent, or busy, or completely unaware of the time of day. He opened his eyes just in time to see the huge wood door creak forward, and he abruptly slid, throwing his weight backward in a desperate attempt to save himself and the eggs from slamming into the slab of wood.

Resigning to take a hit for the team, Castiel allowed himself to slam hard against the stone floor, cushioning the eggs from the fall with his stomach.

"Oomph," he groaned as the jolt of the fall shimmied through his body. He looked up at his unintentional assailant. The woman standing before him was shorter than he, when he was standing, but from his current vantage point she looked like a giant. A giant with soft dark eyes and a curvy feminine mouth. Now, however, she was using both of these usually comforting features in an arrangement that could only be described as foreboding. "Oh," he sighed. "Ellen. I have brought the eggs."

"Was there a fox in the henhouse?" asked Ellen, in what seemed to Castiel to be a startling change of subject.

"Um. No…" he said, unsure of why she would ask.

"Well, then the horses must have gotten loose, and galloped into Twyfory Wood."

"No," said Castiel, with a slowly dawning sense of resignation.

"Then surely," said Ellen, bending down to be face to face with him, "the pigs have all gone flying past the gatehouse on silver wings."

"Well, no, they haven't," mumbled Castiel, looking into the gathered corners of his apron at his fragile charges. They were all intact. _Thank god for small mercies_, he thought to himself glumly.

"Then why, dearest _angel_," crooned Ellen, "are you not at your post until almost two hours after sunrise!" She ended on a brassy crow, ensuring that the legions of servants running errands, fetching meals and working in and around the kitchen would hear every note of her disappointment.

Castiel kept his head down through the following tirade, nodding occasionally in general agreement with Ellen's prognosis of his future, which was something of bleak one, in her opinion. After a suitable length of time, she quieted, and he looked up. She was giving him an understanding, and perhaps a touch apologetic, smile.

"Long night, hun?" she said softly as she helped him off with his apron, tying the strings together around the eggs to make a basket.

Castiel sighed as he followed her into the smoky depths of the kitchens. He didn't like talking about his nightmares, but Ellen and her daughter Jo were the closest thing he had to family in the castle, with the possible exception of Gabe.

Their life of servitude had begun when Jo's father William had died, leaving them destitute and forcing Ellen to claim serfdom to the local Lord. Castiel's had begun when said same local Lord had waged a war in the name of the King upon Castiel's village, killing his parents and most everyone who knew their names. Only Castiel and a few others, including Gabe, who were young enough to pose no threat, were taken to the Castle Lawrence to join the servants corps there.

Some nights, he thought he could remember the day that his future was ripped from him; but others he was just as sure that he had dreamed every false memory with the help of Gabriel's stories.

Castiel slid into a fresh apron and took up a place along Jo, who gave him a pitying smile, kneading bread for the banquet to be held that night. The smells of the immense kitchen folded around him- pungent spices, spit roasted meats and sticky sweet confectionaries of nuts and wild honey. Castiel had spent every day of the last twenty plus years running into the sweltering heat of the and working from the time the first fire was lit until the last knife was cleaned at the end of the night, and yet he had never seen as much activity as there was today.

It was going to be some feast, thought Castiel. The various cooks, brewers, butchers, bakers and even a candlestick maker or two had been working for days leading up to tonight. Fatted calves had been slaughtered and dressed, pork entrails had been mixed with spices and hung in smokehouses, and fruits had been glazed and studded in cloves.

And that was just the kitchen.

In the keep, garlands of flowers had been hung in great sweeping arcs across the hard gray stones that made up the inner curtain of Lawrence. Castiel thought he had never seen such expensive things as the goblets and table settings that had been brought out of the vault and carefully polished by attentive servants. Fine silk ribbons were tied around candelabras and doorknockers and even the torches in the hallways.

Every member of the inner household would be in attendance, either serving or as a guest. Families and envoys from all of the neighboring kingdoms had been coming in for weeks, taking up apartments in the towers and proceeding to live as though they owned it. Castiel had heard from Gabriel that even Sir Victor the Hunts-marshal said that he couldn't be expected to stable _every_ horse in the kingdom. Two whole fields of barley had been repurposed as grazing for the visiting livestock.

It seemed that everybody wanted to be in attendance when the Prince Winchester took a bride.

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It was a few short hours to the feast, and though the kitchen staff was abuzz with work and excitement, Castiel had found a way to slip out into the gardens to sit in the fresh air for a moment, however briefly. There he found Gabriel, coursing a chestnut mare around the now-empty ground that had last been seen full of bulb flowers; tulips and daffodils that had been strung on to garlands. Castiel sat the low rock wall that surrounded the herb garden from the newly seeded vegetable plots and watched him trot along with the pretty horse. The garden was deserted except for them- everyone else was preparing the hall for the banquet

From where he sat, he could see the stables stretched out across the edge of the outer bailey. He could even see the gatehouse, which hummed with excitement as coaches full of late-arriving guests and their following carts of gifts moved slowly past the cadre of guards.

"Does Ellen know you are here?" asked Gabriel with a wry smile. His shaggy blond hair fell over his eyes and made him look almost _indecent_ when he waggled his eyebrows like he now did.

"Does Victor know that you are here?" countered Castiel with a slight quirk of his mouth- the closest he ever came to a smile. Gabriel must have slipped out with the same intentions as Castiel- he was the chief falconer, after all. He had plenty of stable hands he could order around into coursing a horse.

For as long as Castiel had been at Castle Lawrence, he had Gabriel there with him. He even called Castiel his little brother on occasion, despite their markedly different looks. When he was young, Castiel had implored Gabe to tell him about their home in the highlands, because as hard as he tried he couldn't picture it.

"It was beautiful, Castiel. It was so high in the clouds, it was like heaven," Gabe would say, his voice taking on a singsong timbre that Castiel hadn't heard in years. He supposed that not even Gabe could hold onto his natural speech patterns forever. He had, after all, been in the lowlands as long as Castiel, and Castiel couldn't _ever_ remember speaking like an outlander.

As they sat in the lofted room that they shared overlooking the stable yard, Gabriel told him stories about Castiel's family. About how his mother had talked about what a pretty baby he was, what blue eyes he had. Gabriel told him about looking down from the leap over the valley, and being able to see all the way into the lowlands, even though it was nearly three days walk into the lower valleys.

Castiel had once overheard Gabe talking to Jo, telling her about his arrival at Castle Lawrence, over twenty years earlier. Castiel shuddered even thinking about it.

"Is he here yet?" asked Castiel nonchalantly. "It's just a few hours to sunset."

Gabe smiled. "I highly doubt that he will miss the wedding," he said, a touch patronizingly, it seemed to Castiel.

"He was supposed to be back days ago. And the wedding isn't until tomorrow."

Castiel wasn't worried about the Prince- how could he be? Prince Dean was so rarely at Lawrence, the kitchen staff didn't even have his eating preferences memorized. Of course, he rarely ate in the hall even when he _was_ home, preferring to eat with his men outside the keep. "You would think he's _trying_ to stay away."

Gabriel snorted. "You would think that, wouldn't you?" Castiel tilted his head at him, hoping for an explanation. "I suppose he comes off as a bit of a… blunt instrument." Yes, he did, thought Castiel. An absolute hammer in the enforcement of the King's law. "I tell you," said Gabriel, stopping his perpetual jog to look at him squarely. "I have never had more fun relieving a man of his gold than I did when I last went hunting with _Prince_ Dean Winchester."

Castiel sat forward a bit. This was news to him. He had never seen the man smile. "Do you think he doesn't like the castle?" Castiel inquired. He knew it was improper to ask, but this was different. This was _Gabriel_.

"Do you know how his mother died?"

Castiel shook his head. "I know she was murdered by the Yellow Eyes, working for the King Azazel."

Gabriel looked around conspiratorially. "They say that the assassins were _really_ there to kill the Princes. You know, end the bloodline. They couldn't get to King John before, but the boys, well, they were just babies."

Castiel nodded, imploring him to continue. "So, the story goes that Dean sees the man standing over Prince Samuel's crib, and he starts to scream. For his mother, you know, like a little kid does. And the Queen has been sleeping next door to them- just can't leave them alone with the nurses. They say she was the most beautiful, loving…"

"Gabe."

"So anyway, Queen Mary goes rushing in, and she sees the killer in her sons' room, and she starts screaming and attacking him, and you know what he does?"

Castiel was riveted, despite himself. It was certainly not his habit to partake in gossip. He shook his head urgently. He couldn't believe he was hearing this. The events of the night of Queen Mary's death had always been so… secret. No one had ever spoken of it in his presence, and he understood that it wasn't to be brought up.

"The killer stabs her and _then_, he grabs a torch, and lights her up." Gabriel paused for effect, studying the look on Castiel's face. "He lights her on _fire_. Right in front of the Prince. Dean. Right in front of Prince Dean."

Castiel gasped and leaned back as if to distance himself from the story. It was a gruesome tale, to be sure. "So you think he doesn't like being here because it reminds him of the murder of his mother?" mused Castiel, more to himself than to Gabriel.

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As Castiel walked back to the kitchens, he thought about Gabriel's story. For not the first time, he found himself thinking about the similarities between Prince Dean's story and his own. Both orphaned quite young, both spending their lives far from the homes their parents intended for them.

Of course, Prince Dean was away by choice, and Castiel was living a life of involuntary servitude. And if Gabriel's story could be believed, Dean had seen his mother brutally murdered in front of his young eyes, whereas Castiel…

If only he could _remember_. _Oh, well, _he thought to himself. _It's not that I couldn't leave. I could leave. No one would even notice I was gone. Not now._ It was a strangely comforting thought. _Of course_ he found himself adding, ruefully,_ I don't have anywhere to go._

Castiel was almost to the long low line of vented gates that made up the outside entrance to the kitchens when he heard the trumpeting on the Gatehouse tower. He looked back with a little more interest than he would have admitted to himself later. As he gazed toward the gate, a fleet of riders galloped in on decorated warhorses. Prince Dean Winchester had arrived.

Castiel stood watching for a moment before he became conscious of his name being called. "Castiel! Get over here!" It was Sir Victor, the Marshal of the Hunt. He was thirty paces away toward the gate. Castiel registered his request and returned with a quizzical look.

Victor gave him and exasperated look and a large imploring gesture. "Come on," he called. "All the grooms are busy with the guest horses. We need the manpower!"

Castiel gave a long glance toward the kitchen. It was so busy there, they probably wouldn't even notice his absence, and if they did he could simply defer to the fact that Victor required his services and Sir Victor was _considerably_ higher up the ladder than he, Castiel, was. He gave in to the proffered temptation then, turning his back on the hot ovens, and ran out to meet the Prince's party.

As he charged up alongside towards Victor, he was given a set of reigns to hold. He held them loosely and dumbly, trying to keep his gaze from the men on their huge, lanky destriers.

"Victor," said the Prince, jumping down from his jet-black stallion. "What's the status on the patrols around the guests?"

Sir Victor held the beautiful horse still as it's master removed his riding gloves and began to unbuckle his coat. "All clear, Sire, as expected." Dean gave him a sidelong glare.

"Attacks are _never_ expected, Victor. Assassinations are _never_ expected."

"Yes Sire."

"Have the gifts been checked? Have you checked the jewelry on the ladies?"

"The jewelry, Sire?" Victor's tone sounded like a statement, but his face betrayed confusion.

"Yellow eyes. Nobles who are allegiant to Azazel will wear yellow jewels."

"I can't confirm that they have been checked," said Sir Victor. He gazed directly at the Prince for a moment. _He thinks that the Prince is being paranoid,_ thought Castiel, sliding his eyes to the side to take in the prince. It occurred to him, with some small surprise, that he had never been so close to this son of King John before.

Prince Dean was tall enough, not as unusually lanky as his younger brother, but a decent height. He had distinctive green eyes, as were usually specifically commented upon in the two royal portraits of him as well as in the family tree tapestry hanging in the great hall.

Castiel would hesitate to say that the rest of him was ordinary- he supposed that most people would call him quite good looking, but he could quite confidently say that he proportions were quite correct.

"I'll bet," said Dean. He pulled his riding coat off of his broad shoulders and tossed it on his horses saddle, over his gloves. Castiel was surprised to discover that under his riding gear he wore the undecorated plainclothes of a common soldier- a plain linen shirt, brown trousers, and a rough leather belt.

Castiel was also surprised to discover that since his arrival on the scene a few short minutes earlier, he had gained three more sets of reigns, and was now effectively surrounded by large, armored warhorses. He stifled what would have been a startled yelp, and gazed plaintively around for their owners, the knights of Prince Dean's party, all of which seemed to consider their time in the stables at an end. One of horses, a sorrel colored monster, neighed disapprovingly at his discomfort and tossed his head contemptuously.

Castiel shushed and shook his head at his unruly charge, begging him with his eyes not to expose his lack of basic husbandry skills. The horse, it seemed, did not respond well to criticism and whinnied loudly, stepping backward and jerking Castiel forward by his reigns. Another of the large animals felt the tug on their own reigns and stomped in protest. The sorrel backed up further with wide eyes, forcing Castiel to follow, and started to shuffle his front hooves.

Castiel, unused to being around animals of any kind that weren't being roasted on the open ovens, became aware, in some distant corner of his brain, that a bad thing was going to happen if he didn't do something. The horse tossed its head and yanked it back swiftly, dragging Castiel closer. He dropped the other reigns he had been holding.

Unexpectedly, the horse kicked up it's legs. The abrupt movement wrenched the reigns hard, and Castiel was yanked forward, landing hard on his knees below the horses neck. It stomped again, and then reared back. Castiel threw his weight backward in an awkward attempt to clear the landing area beneath the horse. He looked up and saw the hooves of the huge animal flailing above his head. He wanted to close his eyes, but he was riveted to his impending misfortune.

Suddenly, just as quickly as the whole situation had begun, a hand fell on his, and pulled away the reigns. A body stepped in front of Castiel, shushing and cooing what Castiel had to assume were comforting equine words. The horse slammed his hooves down on the ground hard, but didn't show any signs of leaping back again. It whinnied unhappily, as if to accuse Castiel of mistreatment to that man that had presented himself before it. The man clicked his tongue and patted the animal's nose, and was rewarded with a soft snort.

Castiel let out the breath that he hadn't known he was holding. He looked up at his savior and he pulled himself to his feet, wondering darkly in what way he could possibly embarrass himself any further. Just as the thought arose, the answer came back to him, as the man who was even now calming the horse that could have killed Castiel turned toward him. It was Prince Dean.

"New stable hand, Victor?" asked the Prince, gazing at Castiel with something like… curiosity, perhaps?

Sir Victor trotted up along side him, huffing with the relief of an accident averted. "No," he said upon reaching them. "He's a house boy. All our grooms are handling the overflow mounts." He looked at Castiel with a mixture of apology and disappointment, the second time in one day that those two feelings had been leveled at him.

"Haven't you ever met my little brother, Sire?" said Gabriel, coming suddenly up behind Castiel. He clapped him on the back and then dragged him back a step away from the Prince. Castiel was surprised to see him- he hadn't seen him at any time during the proceeding events. "Trouble wherever he sets foot, it's true, but wait till you taste his pasties."

The Prince looked from Gabriel to Castiel for a moment, his mouth quirking into a small smile. Then he looked up at the tower of Castle Lawrence, and his smile faded. "I suppose," he said, "it's time for me to go get ready for the feast." He said this last word darkly.


	2. And the Walls Come Tumblin' Down

**Author's note- Okay, so I may have mentioned that this is my first fic, and after sticking my toe in the water with the first chapter, I have decided to go "all in." I have always been so impressed with the many wonderful writers here- who knew it would feel so good to get even one comment! I hope you like this- I have the extended plot pretty much planned out, but if there is any feeling or dynamic you are particularily wild about, please let me know, and I will see what I can do about upping the ante on those feelings as this story progresses. I'm still in the air about slash. Let's see how it feels.**

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A few hours later, Castiel again found himself roped into an unfamiliar job. Even as his brain swirled with the story that Gabriel had told him that afternoon, he forced his attention to the task at hand

"Say what you will about your punctuality, Castiel, but there is no denying, you clean up well." Ellen put the final touches on Castiel's new serving uniform. He had been pressed into service for the feast, as the regular castle staff couldn't wait upon the full cadre of guests who were even now filling the great hall above their heads.

His uniform consisted of a blue tunic with gold trim, and Castiel thought that it was the most beautiful piece of clothing that he was ever likely to wear. Shining gold buckles lit the cuffs of a clean linen undershirt, and fine soft leather boots rose all the way to his knees over new dark trousers. _It's a shame, _he thought, _that I am unlikely to ever see it again after tonight_.

As the sun set over Castle Lawrence, the grounds lit up with hundreds of carefully placed lanterns. Guards walked slowly along their paths, each in silent awe of the unusually luminous landscape around them. In the distance, from out of Twyfory wood, a brightly lit caravan of carriages made their way toward the Castle, carrying the lucky bride ever closer.

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The trumpets roared over the bustle of the crowd in the hall. Castiel stood tensely behind the line of long tables that ringed the hall, facing the high table on the dais at the front of the room. His job, he was told, was to look impressive and keep the glasses full of wine. As the guests quieted, everyone turned their attention to the back of the room. The hall doors, beautifully carved with intricate knots and highlighted with painted gold, were held open on either side of the stone arch of the doorway. Four guards, dressed in highly polished festival armor, flanked the open gate.

In stark contrast to the ceremony that the setting dictated, King John strode in, not waiting for his guard, which marched pensively behind him. He made his way smartly to the front of the hall, his footfalls muffling into the murmurs of the crowd. When he reached his seat on the dais, he turned and smiled at the gathered people.

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Castiel had seen the King before. Many times, in fact. King John was an avid lover of his Castle, and his grounds, and his kingdom, and though he was no longer able to ride the breadth of the land with a cadre of men the way he once was, he still liked to be a hands-on lord of his household. He could often be found walking the fields in the spring, taking in the new plantings, or supervising the building of new walls in the lower villages, or even sitting by the smith's forge as his horse was being reshod.

The first time Castiel had ever seen him was one of his earliest memories. He couldn't have been older than three or four. He remembered cuddling near Gabriel's larger form on the course straw mat in their lofted sleeping quarters. He could hear the snoring of the stable hands in the huge columned rooms below. Slowly, he became aware of a murmured voice directly outside the stable- a soft command and a responsive jingle.

With slow and gentle movements, Castiel slid out from under his "brothers" protecting arm. He tiptoed silently across the loft, and padded down the sloping riser that ran from his sleeping space to the floor of the stable. He peered out a crack in the nearest shuttered window, shivering slightly in the winter cold.

Outside, a tall dark man stood in the snow, gently stroking the nose of a huge black courser. The horse blinked its eyes languidly and flicked its tail. Castiel quietly walked to the door, took a deep breath, and opened it. It squeaked slightly as he pushed it outward into the yard. When it was just open enough for his narrow shoulders to slip through, he made his move, and joined the strange man in the open.

Castiel stared at the man's back for a long time, his curious brain not having planned beyond this point. After a long moment, the man chuckled, and turned his shoulders toward the intruder. He had dark messy hair, and warm deep eyes. He smiled lopsidedly at the child who faced him like a judgmental priest.

"I know who you are," the man whispered. "You are the child from the highlands. You have come a long way." Castiel stared. "You know, I have a son your age," the dark man mused.

Castiel didn't move. He didn't speak. The man bowed his head for a moment, and when he looked up, his face betrayed sorrow. "This may mean nothing to you," he said, "but for the fact that the things I have done that have brought you to this place, I am truly sorry." He studied the young boy for a long moment, and then smiled, sadly this time. Castiel couldn't remember how he made his way back to his bed, but when he woke up, he and Gabe were wrapped in a thick new woolen blanket. It wasn't until later that he had discovered that the tall dark man was, in fact, King John of Lawrence. He had seen him many times since, but the dark man had never again looked him in the eye or spoken even one more word to the child from the Highlands.

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Tonight, King John wore full regalia. A heavy gold crown sat on his head, and his hair looked like it had been tamed through sheer intimidation. He wore a tunic similar to Castiel's serving one, though his was embroidered in real golden thread, and featured the full Lawrence coat of arms, topped by a golden crown. The tunic laid over ceremonial armor, lighter and more decorative than his real war armor.

"I am truly honored by the presence of each and every one of you," he said in a rich, happy tone. "There are many things I wish to say to you, but I am no great speaker." This was met with laughter and a few brusque rebuttals. John held up his hand to hush the crowd. "Perhaps I will find my voice in the presence of my beloved sons." He raised his arm and gestured toward the door.

Right on cue, the princes walked through the open doors. Dean had cleaned himself up after a full day of travelling with his party. He wore a beautiful version of his military uniform, replete with fine embroideries and golden spurs on his boots. His attitude seemed not to have changed since the moment of his arrival home, he wore an expression that was most definitely better suited to the training field than an occasion fit for revelry

Dean's brother, the Prince Samuel, did not wear a uniform, because he didn't have one. The younger son of King John had always made a better scholar than he did a soldier, a fact that caused some concern among the nobles. The King had spurned the advice of his ministers and sent Sam to a series of monasteries to learn as much as he could. This had been to his advantage in the long run, as Sam had become an absolutely wonderful force of reason within the court, and truly skilled political tactician. Tonight, he was beaming. A gold circlet sat on his blond head, and he positively shimmered in happy anticipation.

The brothers took their seats on the right side of their father, and the three men all turned their attention to the door on final time. "My beloved countrymen," said King John, "I would like to introduce to you the new heart of our kingdom, who has already become the heart of my dear son Samuel. Please welcome, and then love, the Lady Jessica."

The assembled guests immediately hushed and turned to face the back of the hall. Castiel felt himself rise slightly on his toes. He hadn't even realized that he cared to see the new Princess of Lawrence.

The Lady, as she walked through the door with her company of family, servants and ladies, took the breath of the assembled crowd. She was as lovely as everyone in Lawrence had heard, with long, gently curling hair and large blue eyes. Her face seemed to radiate a joy that she held internally, rather that one that was painted carefully onto her features. She walked with measured steps to the seat on the left of the King and took a moment to arrange her azure gown before looking up at the assembled people.

She smiled gently at the guests, and Castiel thought he could almost hear the hearts of all the people falling in love with their new Princess. Everyone except Prince Dean, of course, who was gazing steadily, with a pale, blank face, at the wall strait ahead of him.

"The only dream that a King may have is that his country will live in peace. It is his only wish, his only goal, his only thought." King John addressed the crowd with a melodious baritone. "If a King could have one wish, it would be that his sons be free to live their lives, and in their lives, to have dreams of their own."

Castiel's eyes flicked toward the Princes. Sam was looking across his father's chair at the Princess. She gazed back at him with a blissful look. Dean was staring down at his place setting. Castiel could see, thanks to his position against the side of the hall that the Prince's fingers were twisting through the gold rope that looped around his belted waist.

"A King cannot have a wish, and his son's lives, like his own, shall live as instruments of their people. But there is one comfort- there is one thing that shall forever belong to the man it is given. The heart of a fine woman. And there is no finer woman than she who has given her heart to my son. And for that, I am truly grateful."

Dean's fingers abruptly let go of their grip on the cord and moved to his temple. He brushed his hand over his brow, but kept his eyes firmly on the table. Castiel thought he saw his lips part slightly, as though he was concentrating on his breathing. As his father finished his speech, he lifted his head- his face wore the same blank expression Castiel had noted during the procession. He nodded in approval as the people cheered the King, but continued to gaze at the wall at the back of the hall.

Castiel followed his gaze, this time, looking for some sort of clue regarding his apparent distress. And in that moment, it made sense. Dean had been looking at the official portrait of the royal family, a carefully painted image of his father and mother proudly presenting to the court their new son, Samuel. Dean stood in the foreground, his father's hand on his shoulder. The King gazed out of the painting at the viewer. The queen's eyes were demurely cast downward towards her sons. She had gently curling yellow hair, Castiel noted, and wore a deep blue gown.

The following hours were filled with dish upon dish of the finest foods that the kingdom (and the kitchen) had to offer. Castiel lost the curious attention that he had focused on the Prince as he ran back and forth from tables of wines to the glasses of the gentry. He was interested in, and a little alarmed by, the sheer amount of food and wine that they consumed, as well as the richness of their clothes and manners. A young lady beckoned him near her, and he knelt down next to her chair obligingly.

"My name is Lady Megann Masters," she said, giving him a shy look. Castiel raised his head from its bowed position and looked at her. She was… sweet looking, he decided, with soft pale hair and huge, almond shaped eyes. She quirked a small smile at him, and he blushed instinctively. "I hope it's not to forward to ask…." She looked down and giggled into her handkerchief.

As she turned her face away, a large jewel flashed at the corner of her jaw. Her earrings were large drops of yellow topaz. Castiel's mind flashed back to the events of the previous hours. Dean had been asking his Marshal after references to yellow jewelry…

"Hello?" Castiel snapped his attention back to the girl sitting before him. Her coy expression remained, and expanded with a touch of puzzled amusement. He hadn't heard a word she had said over the preceding minute. He couldn't imagine how to respond to her expectant gaze. Perhaps luckily for him, that was the moment when they heard the first warning bell.

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It didn't take more than a moment for chaos to erupt in the great hall. Some people ran to the dais to gaze out of the windows that ran along that edge of the room. Others attempted to retreat to their apartments in other areas of the tower, but were stopped by the alarmed guards at the doorways, who were suddenly greeted with waves of soldiers, bloody and haggard-looking from the outer wall. Castiel saw the girl who had spoken to him, Lady Megann, crouching behind the front table with a terrified look. His thoughts went immediately to Ellen and Jo, and he backed away from the confusion of the center of the room toward the columned alcoves along the sides of the hall, looking for the exit that he would need to get down to the kitchens.

A crash stopped the noisome protests of the civilian gentry. Castiel's eyes, along with the eyes of everyone else in the room, snapped to the dais, where Prince Dean stood in the center of the front table. He had kicked a candelabrum to the floor to garner attention, and the beeswax candles sputtered against the flagstone as he addressed the crowd.

"Silence!" roared Dean. "I want everybody to listen to me!" The crowd stood stark still and turned towards his confident presence. "All guards in procession gear will stay at the doors of the hall and protect the citizens. Everyone in training gear or better, go to your defensive posts. Alert your comrades, now!" A loud noise could be heard outside the walls of the inner tower, as well as the escalating cries of the people working beyond the inner walls. The people in the hall shuffled nervously, trying to contain their instinct to run. The guards all left the room, taking up their positions throughout the castle. Castiel could hardly maintain his calm, so desperate was he to charge with them towards the lower quarters of the castle, to find and protect the people close to him.

"You," Dean growled, and pointed roughly at the Lady Jessica. She flinched, visibly cowed by his threatening tone. "Take off that crown. Sam, assemble all the women together. If they reach the tower, she can't be identified. I'm going to lead the defense. You are in control of the citizenry." Sam, who had been standing in tense silence waiting for instruction, nodded brusquely and began to remove his ceremonial finery, stripping off first his gold circlet, then his cream-colored coat.

Dean strode towards the beautifully carved doors, where a troop of men in various states of readiness waited for him. He turned back for a moment to eye his brother one last time. "I know," he said, addressing the guests, "that it is your first and strongest instinct to run, and get away from this place. Believe me when I tell you how inadvisable that move has just become. I can only guarantee my continued efforts toward your safety if you stay here and follow the instructions of my brother." He turned back toward his men and began to make his way down the hall. It wasn't until that moment that Castiel realized that he hadn't seen the King since the warning bell had rung.

In the future, Castiel would look back on the next moment and consider it the moment that his life had changed. He took some comfort in the fact that it had been precipitated by his own actions.

Because what he did next was not an action that Castiel considered typical of his normal procedure. Seeing the guest of the feast huddle near the front of the room, and the servants either run for cover in the rest of the castle or cluster into groups in the corners of the hall, Castiel walked decisively towards the carving station. There, he began choosing knives from the long lineup that was laid carefully along the roasted meats that were being offered for the feast that had been underway a few minutes earlier.

He picked medium sized well-sharpened carving blades, not the double-edged paring knives that sat in abundance on the wings of the table. He slid six of the blades in his belt at his hip, where he would be protected from their sharp bite by the comparatively strong leather and wool of his Lawrencian uniform. He pulled two long knives out of a roasted suckling pig as something of an afterthought, and plunged them into the straps that ran along the tops of his new boots, where they laid perfectly against the black leather.

Castiel didn't have time to be satisfied with his outfit for a second time that day. He walked purposefully out the doors as they were being closed. None of the guards attempted to stop him. As a servant, he was, for all practical purposes, invisible.

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Castiel found it at least slightly ironic that even though he had spent effectively his whole life in the castle, he still found it difficult to find his way outside after his initial plan of taking the back corridor to the kitchen failed. He had found the passage filled with thick black smoke, and had been forced to turn back after a few short steps. His heart felt cold, his worry pervasive- he sprinted back up to the hall entrance and followed the direction that he thought that the Castle guard had taken.

As he ran through the eerily vacant halls, his frustration grew. He could hear the growls of fighting directly outside the walls he skirted. He wondered how many combatants there were- how they had so easily slipped in so far without notice? Above the shrieks of frightened people and the clang of weaponry, a dull roar filled the air of Castle Lawrence. Castiel couldn't begin to place the noise, and his stomach leapt with worry as he reached the main entrance.

Blocked. The heavy wooden lattice that sat between the double curtain walls of the keep had been lowered to try to keep the invaders at bay. The two nearest tertiary entrances proved themselves similarly reinforced. Castiel hissed in annoyance and ran towards the chapel. He silently apologized to the various artisans of Lawrence for the next step in his plan.

The Winchester family chapel was small, but ornate. It was located on the ground floor, for which Castiel was very grateful. He had only ever entered it once, but he knew what to expect. High stained glass windows lined the walls of the room, terminating in arches that echoed the artistry of the stonework itself. The windows themselves seemed stained with blood tonight, as red light flooded onto the floor of the chapel from the violent world outside its peaceful enclosure.

Castiel raced to the alcove at the front of the room and grabbed a heavy candlestick. Hefting it above his shoulder he ran with it to a window near the back of the room. With a small, regretful noise, he brought the heavy gold decoration down hard on the colorful window, smashing it easily with the force of his blow. He dropped the candlestick and brought up his foot, kicking the edges of the glass off their lead holdings. When the opening was finally wide enough, he reached though and pulled himself outside.

The night was cooler than he expected, or maybe the blood had just drained from his face. Despite being in a surprisingly empty section of the grounds, Castiel could easily see the destruction across the terrace as it stretched toward the outer curtain wall of the bailey. Bodies littered the ground near the outer walls. The fighting had moved further inward, toward the center gate.

_There must not have been too many initial attackers, _thought Castiel, as there were almost no people left in the outer bailey. The bodies of several brave soldiers and a few unlucky peasants covered the ground he ran across. The castle gate stood wide open without, Castiel noted, any evidence of forcing. _Betrayal_, he thought in some small corner of his mind that wasn't yet too traumatized to think. Clearly someone had either opened the gate from the inside, or the attackers were trusted, and the guards had let them pass.

And now Castiel saw the source of the strange thunderous sound. Outside the inner wall, a fire roared over the twelve buildings that made up the stable. _Gabriel_ was Castiel's only panicked thought and he began to sprint toward the inferno.

The falconry and sleeping quarters were completely engulfed in red flames, but most of the other buildings were less overtaken. The long royal stable with its thatched roof was blazing from the top, and Castiel could hear the panicked whinnies of the horses trapped inside. He bolted toward the broad gates of the building and threw them open, darting to the side quickly as frightened horses began pouring out into the yard.

"Gabriel?" Castiel screamed into the smoky space beyond the passage he had opened. As fresh night air rushed into the open barn, the flames took a dedicated leap into the sky above Castiel's head. Above the raging howl of the firestorm Castiel could hear the frenzied scream of a horse still in the building. He glanced toward the back of the barn, squinting his eyes against the caustic smoke.

It was Dean's solid black charger. It was tethered to a post at the far back of the stable. Castiel could see that it had been tied there to be groomed- the various brushes, picks and blades of the task were scattered around the petrified animal. The horse kicked and reared, but couldn't pull his reigns from their knotted position on the post.

The entryway creaked and Castiel hesitated for a moment. There was a crash inside the stable as part of the roof fell in, and the horse gave a startled yelp. Castiel took a deep breath and ran into the flaming building.

As soon as he had crossed the threshold, the tenuous hold on stability that the doorway had maintained gave way, and crashed in behind him. Castiel instinctively ducked, coughing in the increasingly smoky air. He stumbled almost blindly to the back of the stable, where the trapped horse puffed with wild eyes. Grabbing a hold of the reigns on the post, he struggled with the knot for a short moment before remembering that he had a set of knives on his person. He pulled one out and cut the reigns as close to the knot as his fumbling fingers could manage.

The horse was incredibly well trained. Even terrified and trapped in a burning building, the presence of a human holding it's reigns seemed to calm it immensely. Fiery bits of thatching rained from the ceiling and Castiel coughed again. His lungs were desperate to pull in a full breath of air, and he did his best to keep himself from giving in to their requests, holding up a sleeve in front of his mouth and nose. His eyes closed in the oppressive atmosphere and he felt his balance shift precariously. The world seemed to narrow around him for a moment as he attempted to right the wobbling feeling in his legs. _Get out!_ His brain screamed at him as he stumbled.

A nip at his shoulder brought him back to stable. The horse nudged his shoulder urgently. Castiel nodded to it, and immediately felt ridiculous. He couldn't see a way out, but the horse seemed less and less nervous by the second. He decided to go with the strange feeling of peace that radiated from the animal, and felt along its neck to its back, his watering eyes no longer fit to direct him in the new burning landscape he found himself in.

Castiel had never in his life been on top of a horse, but now he felt composed as he held tightly to the horse's mane and began to pull himself up with a small starting jump. It must have been part of a routine that was familiar to the horse, because it took a small step forward as he was mid-leap, effectively planting Castiel on its back. Castiel held the reigns and kicked the horse lightly, unsure of what to do next, but feeling a strange sense of trust in the animal.

The horse, apparently infused with confidence now that it had a rider, dived to the side out of the alcove and began a sudden acceleration across what was left of the empty stable. Castiel flattened himself against its back, pushing his face into its neck. As the horse reached the end of the long building, it's increasing cantor became a flat out gallop toward the crumbled mess of flaming timber that used to represent the gateway of the stables. As it approached the hurdle Castiel closed his eyes, silently accepting whatever happened next.

What happened was one of the most incredible feelings of his life to that point. The horse's hooves left the ground and vaulted them into the air with tremendous force. A weightless feeling that Castiel supposed could have been the lack of air inside the barn overtook his body, and a rush of cold hit his face. His stomach flipped as he plummeted from what felt like an astonishing height towards the earth beyond the stable door. He felt himself fall forward, an alarming realization after the wild floating sensation that had just overtaken him.

The horse's hooves slammed into the earth and it took off at a gallop, racing away from the remnants of what had been their, both Castiel and the horse's, home.

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**Author's Note- Stay with me! This is about to get a _lot_ more Dean centric, as their stories meet up in a very abrupt way.**


	3. The Fall of the House of Winchester

**Author's Note- First of all, thank you all so much, just for reading, much less commenting and favoring. Really. It means so much. I had no idea what it felt like to get responses like that. I will never _not_ comment on a story I appreciate again. I have learned a few things about the realm of fandom as well as specifically-**

**a- People are much nicer than I thought**

**b- People care more than I think anyone thought**

**c- I love you guys**

**So on to part 3- I'm sorry this is such a short chapter- I am working on what comes next _right now_, but there was such a good stopping point built in at the end of this one, I thought I would post this relatively small amount as a full chapter. Think of it this way- I posted it earlier than I would have if I had extended it in a natural way. Enjoy!  
**

Dean's brain worked furiously to formulate a new plan. If he were working within a more natural set of parameters, this would be the perfect time to raise his sword to rally his men to him, and then call for a fall back to the secondary line.

But he wasn't working within familiar territory, and taking quick stock of the situation he noticed that he had _a_- no sword, _b_- no men, and _c_- no secondary line for those arbitrary men to fall back to. Dean had taken part in countless military actions in the past ten years, and commanded many more, but never had he felt such a distinct lack of direction than he did as he stumbled back from his latest faceless foe.

He heaved a shuddering breath, trying to stop his heart from fluttering with a strange, new, wholly unpleasant sense of indecisive panic. He couldn't tell what time it was; darkness pervaded the scoured grounds of Castle Lawrence. The attack had moved inward with uncanny speed- Dean had barely been aware of the front line moving past him as he stood in the gateway of the second curtain wall. Behind him, forces slammed against the barricades that had been dropped at the tower entrance. Before him, dark shapes blockaded the primary Castle entrance at the gatehouse and swept through the outer yards, burning or killing everything they found.

Dean knew that the stable had been either burned or destroyed- he had seen the warhorses charging frantically into the night. The gatehouse had been spared- it was already playing reluctant host to new occupants.

He felt, in the suddenly empty night that surrounded him, a distinct vulnerability that he understood to be his warrior instinct telling him to either _find the line_ or _take shelter_. A moving wing of the still organized attackers had a huge chance of pinning the Prince down and snuffing him out without taking the time to notice the value of their capture.

His sword had been wrenched out of his grasp hours ago, bent and lost in the chink of a combatant's armor. He had moved to a small handaxe for a while, before losing it, too in the chaotic shifting tides of the fighting. Now, he took a knee for the third time since his world had shattered earlier that night, and began to look for another source of personal defense.

Dean found himself leaning over the crushed body of a fellow Lawrencian soldier. He closed his eyes for a moment, reminding himself not to look at his countryman's face. _There will be time for mourning later,_ he reminded himself sharply; _for now, there is a battle to fight_. When he opened his eyes, he looked to the man's belt, and found a long knife. He took it a rose to feet. A few steps away, something caught his eye.

It was an elegant bow, stained a dark green with carved horn accents. Dean's heart fell. He knew whose bow this was. He had given it to him. It belonged to his Royal Falconer, Gabriel. Without being able to stop himself, Dean collected the bow and began to frantically search the battlefield. He could not immediately find anyone out of uniform, either the blue and gold tunics of Lawrence or the black armor with the yellow eyes sewn onto the tunic of the invading force.

After a moment of searching, he stopped himself. _Enemy combatants first_, his father had drilled into him, and he couldn't afford not to comply with his advice. That was when he heard it, the rustling footstep of a body directly behind him.

Dean whirled, holding out his knife in a decidedly offensive posture. The would-be assassin threw his arms up in the air, brandishing a short axe, and charged, wailing a war cry. Dean threw his weight to the side, jabbing quickly at the unarmored underarm of his attacker.

The soldier was ready for it. He changed direction alarmingly quickly, slamming his shoulder into the Prince's unarmored chest. They both took several reeling steps out into the outer yard before collapsing on top of one another, begging for the attention of the destructive force that was even now brutalizing that area of the Castle.

Dean thrust away from the ravaging axe that had been hovering near his neck during their drawn out tumble, trying to pull himself to his feet even as his tunic was pinned. The attacker rolled to his feet first, and lashed his arm out, clipping Dean high on the hip with the blade of the axe.

Dean grunted in surprise- he felt like a cold wind had suddenly whipped around him and pulled him to the ground. He looked up with a stunned expression, and saw the axe-wielding soldier raise his arms above his head, ready to bring the hard steel down onto Dean's defenseless form.

Dean was certain, in the split second that followed, that he was going to die, here, in his home, at the hands of the group that had killed his mother. It was with not a small amount of shock, then, that Dean watched as his attacker took a small shuddering step back and lowered his weapon. A second later he fell the ground face first, a large kitchen knife buried in the back of his neck.

Dean gasped and looked up to see what had saved him. To his utter amazement, his horse stood in the open bailey before him, his sleek black silhouette outlined by the flames that ripped through the artisan buildings behind him. On his strong frame sat a man, riding him with reigns but without a saddle.

The man still held his arm out from when he had thrown the knife, a look of alarm etched into his features. Dean's savior had messy black hair, and huge blue eyes. Dean knew who this was.

"Castiel…" he said, taking huge gulps of air from the cool night. His words caused the shocked man to turn his gaze to the prince, and Castiel's eyes widened a little more, giving him an almost comic expression of astonishment.

"Prince Dean?" he said in a small voice. Dean pulled himself up on his elbows, and in that moment, all the feeling that had rushed out of his body at the start of his latest violent encounter came rushing back. He gave an involuntary yelp and pressed his hand to his hip, gasping in pain and surprise. Gabriel's bow, which he still held in his right hand, shook, betraying his condition to all who cared to see it.

Castiel and Dean met eyes for a moment, each wondering what to do with the other. Dean could see, in the nervous expression on the kitchen boy's face, that Castiel had never intended through his actions to be a part of the fighting tonight. He could also see that Castiel would be whatever Dean needed him to be in the hours that followed. Dean nodded to him shortly, confirming that whatever happened next, it would happen to them both.

Dean rose shakily to his knees, and then lurched to his feet unsteadily. Castiel's expression grew curious and he squinted at the Prince. Dean realized that Castiel hadn't seen his shaking, hadn't seen the axe blow. _Just as well_, thought Dean grimly. One can never tell what the uninitiated will do at the sight of their first battle. _Let's just get through this, and we will see if we even need to take care of it._

Dean gave a short low whistle, and the horse leapt forward, gaining speed rapidly toward the Prince. Castiel, apparently becoming familiar with the independently minded animal, leaned into the charge. Dean held out a hand to the new rider, and Castiel reached out to take it. As the sleek black horse galloped hard into the inner yard, Dean was pulled on its back and slid into place behind Castiel.

_The tides have turned,_ thought Dean. _I now have at least one man in my party._

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Castiel tried not to think about how his night had changed in the last thirty seconds. He knew that it would do nothing to help Gabriel, nothing to help Ellen and Jo, and nothing to help the Prince if he couldn't get over his surprise and become effective immediately. Somewhere deep inside himself, he knew that the course of his life and it's allegiances had just shifted. Permanently.

The Prince's weight behind him had an immediate effect on the horse. Whereas before he felt like he was riding a comet to whatever corner of the galaxy it had felt like, now it felt responsive and changeable. Dean's hands wrapped around Castiel's sides and pressed lightly, and Castiel changed his weight accordingly. Suddenly, the huge animal was like his own feet, turning and moving with unexpected agility.

"We have to get into the tower," said a low voice in his ear, and Castiel angled the horse back into the second curtain wall.

"I got out through the chapel, I'm sure we can get in that way," said Castiel, turning his head to make himself heard. Even from here, he could see that there was almost no activity in that part of the grounds. "There is an available window entrance."

"No," said the prince, gritting his teeth. "Climbing through windows has lost it's efficiency at present." Castiel couldn't imagine what had changed to rule out what seemed to him to be a good option, if they really had to gain entrance to the tower.

Suddenly, a low rumbling filled the night air, crescendoing into the strange sensation of being both earsplitting and almost completely inaudible. Castiel flinched, and the horse echoed his movement with a step backward.

"Oh, god," said the Prince. "Plans have changed. Let's get out of here." He pressed on Castiel's side and the horse swooped back into the inferno that was the outer bailey.

"What was that?" shouted Castiel over the receding noise. Dean snorted and Castiel thought he could almost _hear_ his expression grow stony.

"A full retreat," he answered, as he guided the horse along the curtain wall to the backside of the castle. "The army has brought down a booby-trapped cellar wall- it seals of the main castle from the armory, cellars and resource stocks, as well as the treasury and vault." He took a deep, shuddering breath, and Castiel thought he heard him groan, perhaps in frustration at their situation. "They won't be able to get to anything of value," he finished, with a defeated sigh.

Castiel hadn't known where they were heading, he simply guided the horse as the Prince guided him, and they arrived at the secondary well behind the castle. Castiel was amazed to find that a section of the wall had been all but completely removed. A cadre of dazed-looking guards hustled a ragged group of civilians over the crumbled remains of Lawrence's primary defense. They looked up as their commander arrived, on the back of a horse that was being piloted by a kitchen boy.

"The cellar vaulting has been pulled," said Dean shortly. "Full retreat. Fall behind the outside town wall." He hissed these final words, and Castiel felt Dean's left hand drop quickly from his hip.

The exhausted guards followed the last few civilians over the wall, and disappeared into the night. Castiel and Dean watched them go, nervously checking behind themselves every other moment. When Dean was sure that his charges were out of site, he clicked his tongue to the horse, and led Castiel to circle the animal widely around the covered well that stood to mark the position of the final retreat, looking for any straggling followers.

"Alright," said the Prince softly against Castiel's neck. "Let's go." He kicked gently at the horse's neck, and the three of them leapt from their home into the open country beyond.

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A half an hour later, they had made a wide galloping loop around the back of the castle, and they stood at the edge of Twyfory Wood, staring at the flames that framed the Gatehouse. Castiel could see from where he was that the village, at least, was not on fire. He and the Prince stood in front of the horse, Dean lightly holding the reigns.

A small band of people were getting ready to address the assembled crowd of invaders and terrified townspeople that were gathered outside the wall from on top of the gatehouse. Castiel gasped when he saw the leader of the group step forward to the edge of the small balcony.

It was Lady Megann, the giggling girl from the feast that had been in full swing at the moment that Castiel had lost track of his last life. She didn't look so sweet or beautiful now, Castiel saw. She stood with a wicked grin on her face; her hair had been taken down from her hat and fell in locks around her face. Her pale yellow wrap had been removed, and now she wore a plain black gown. In one hand, she held a knife. In the other, she held the Lady Jessica by her soft blond curls. Lady Jessica's blue silk cover was also missing. She stood now wearing only a light shift made of white linen.

"The House of Winchester has fallen!" she informed the assembled people. "I claim this castle in the name of King Azazel of the Yellow Eyes!" Megann glowered down at the people, her lip twisting into a vicious snarl. "Anyone who wears their colors shall be killed. Anyone who harbors any member of their family or court will wish they had been killed."

She pulled Lady Jessica forward, dragging her struggling and horrified form to the edge of the balcony.

Castiel gasped. Was she going to throw the lady off the gatehouse? Dean took a step forward next to him, and Castiel placed a restraining hand on the Prince's chest. He kept his eyes on the drama unfolding before him.

There was a pause, and Megann eyed the crowd, taking in their fearful faces. Suddenly, she raised her arm and brought the knife down swiftly into the Lady Jessica's belly.

The reaction was immediate. The armored men in black and yellow howled in concordance with the violent action. The townspeople wailed in protest.

Megann held up Jessica's head as she bled out in front of her would-be subjects. She disposed of the knife she had used for her vile action, throwing it into the hands of a nearby knight. She held out a hand to one of the band of men who accompanied her, receiving a lit torch.

As the sun rose over a new day and the Castle Lawrence, Megann lit the gown of the Lady Jessica, and pushed her roughly from the balcony. If she had screamed, it couldn't be heard over the raucous cries of the crowd below.

Under Castiel's hand, the Prince shuddered violently. Castiel's head snapped to look at Dean. His face was ashen with a frozen expression of horror. Then, abruptly, his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto the forest floor. It was the day of his brother's wedding.

**Author's note- The action stops abruptly after this point. If you like action, sorry about the (several) upcoming chapters. If you don't like action, I can't believe that you made it this far, but I love you. What's coming up is for you.**


	4. I do not know your dreaming lore

**Author's note- Well, gosh- I thought I had given up on this story, because this chapter sucked so much to write. It turns out that I had this big plan and all these plot elements and dynamics that I wanted to explore, and they all start right at the end of this chapter. So, I guess I had to get through this, and I don't hate it- I managed to plant a few of the plot devices I had assumed I wouldn't get to until later. But it's worth noting- I feel like I can do better than this, so maybe (and I won't ask this again for any other chapter) go a little easy on me hear, and maintain your optimism for future chapters.**

**Also- I don't think I will take huge, month-long breaks from this story again. Sorry about that. You know... life. Anyway- thanks so much for reading! I had no idea I liked doing this sort of thing- I actually have other stories in the works! I may actually be a fanfiction writer!**

Wakefulness came to Dean slowly, and he kept his eyes closed even as he slowly became aware of himself. He felt as though he was sinking into a cloud- his head felt so heavy, and his bed felt so soft. He was aware of sunlight striking his face, but couldn't help but bask in the warmth and comfort of his bed for just a few more minutes.

He breathed in and smelt the grassy smell of fresh mint, combined with something light and floral, which hung like a fine silken mist above the clean wooden smell of his room. His mother. She hummed lightly to herself, taking apart the melodies of her favorite tunes and returning them in endless streams of sweet nothings. Her chair squeaked softly as she rocked Sammy, and Dean smiled to himself, and loved her, and he loved Sammy, and he loved his home.

When the memories came, it wasn't as a slow, horrific realization, nor was it a rushing torrent of panic and loss. It was just the plain, solid truth of experience- _it will never again be the way it was_.

It was a sensation that he had felt many times, taking stock of a battle, or losing a friend, or even losing a foe. He had lots of experience with the act of acceptance, and it only took a moment of forceful reiteration inside of him before he stopped raging behind his eyelids.

He began to complete an internal survey of knowledge to draw from before he opened his eyes. He knew that he had been injured the night before- he decided not to take stock of his body, if he could help it- he had always found, after a battle, that it was best to simply follow the instructions of the healers and fellow warriors until the time was right to become aware of your own condition- it didn't do to dwell upon opened skin and protruding arrows if you had no cause for recourse, so for now he settled for simply acknowledging the vague sense of wrongness emanating from his left side.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was staring up at the inside of a thatched roof. It was thickly hung with tightly bound bundles of flowers and leaves, which hung over him like a fragrant shroud. Light poured in at the edges of his vision, and a cool misty breeze flowed over his cheeks. The whole scene felt impossibly clean and peaceful, and for a moment, Dean wondered if perhaps either this place or last night or both had been a dream.

He rolled his head to the side and took in the rest of the room. He was in a one-room cottage. It was relatively well lit, with many small windows whose shutters had been thrown open, and tiny springtime flowers grew into the edges of Dean's field of vision from the yard. In the middle of the room a table was covered with equipment- Dean could see his tunic and ceremonial greaves on one corner, but couldn't see the specifics of the other items.

Directly across the room from where he lay, a pretty girl sat in a simple chair. She had long blond hair that fell over one shoulder, and her skirts were looped up into her belt, showing men's trousers that disappeared into wrapped riding boots. She was leaning over something that lay in her lap, and with every motion a faint squeaking sound emitted from her work.

Dean took a shuddering breath, and coughed slightly. The girl stopped humming and looked up.

"You woke up," she said simply, her hands stopped in the middle of her work and hovered for a moment. "Are you in pain?"

Dean considered the question, staring at the girl's round dark eyes. "Yes," he breathed, and as he said it he became aware of a huge, horrible sensation- something so deep and aching he almost couldn't stomach it. He wanted to gag, or thrash, or get up and run and leave his fragile composure in the soft bed. In fact, though, he merely closed his eyes and rolled his head to the wall on the other side of his palette.

He was used to the sensation of helplessness that came from being injured. He had been tagged before in battle, and he had suffered countless small injuries in his training with the King's Guard, as well as once being thrown from Lampblack before he really knew how to ride him, but he didn't think that he had ever felt something so paralyzingly, hugely _wrong_ within him before, as though his very framework was damaged. He took deep, steadying breaths, and summoned up his soldier's acceptance again.

His memory lurched backward, reminding him of his actions last night, and he saw it- the moment that he grabbed the hand of kitchen boy, and he hadn't seen Dean's wound, and so Dean had chosen not to see it either- at least not until he had finished his duty through the duration of that battle. And he hadn't died, and now he had to face what he had denied then. That's the way now was- Sammy was gone, and his house had fallen, and he had been….

A cool hand fell on his forehead, and Dean realized that his face had been screwed up into a tight grimace. He tried to relax his features, to relax his thoughts, and opened his eyes again. The girl's face hovered over him, framed by bunches of flowers, and Dean took a shaky breath. "Who are you?" he asked though a tension-releasing sigh.

"My name is Jo," said the girl. She said it kindly, but Dean had some sense that she was reserving her right to be more aggressive even as she smiled at him. "I work in the castle. My mother is Ellen, the Mistress of the kitchens." Perhaps she saw the need for information in him, because she volunteered more without being asked.

"It's true- the castle is taken. They are flying yellow-eyed flags. It's mid- day, but the guards haven't gone through the town yet. They must not be done looting your apartments." She gave him a pointed look that said _I know who you are_ and _you are hunted_. "You need to be stitched, but I can't do it- we need to wait for Castiel to wake up. Do you remember how you got here?"

Dean swallowed, and then nodded. He remembered the shocked gasp from his kitchen boy, Castiel, he remembered dragging himself upright with Lampblack's reigns in one hand and his arm slung over Cas's shoulders, he remembered a voice demanding that he take _one more step_. He remembered shocks of pain; more like stabs of cold, radiating up his side and making his fingers freeze. He remembered the tickly sensation of blood sliding along his leg, remembered seeing it drip off of the kitchen boy's tunic where it had pressed against his side as they stumbled forward together. He remembered the first moment where it was light enough for Castiel to notice just how pervasive the stain had become, and he remembered how he had closed his eyes and thanked God and all his angels that this man of his wasn't afraid.

"Is my horse alive?" he asked, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice.

"Yes," said Jo. "He's in the garden, probably eating my fennel." Dean imagined that if circumstances were different, he might have enjoyed the company of this girl. "I acquired another horse for you," she said, "and I'm doing what I can to get you the equipment you need, but I should tell you now that you can't stay here."

Dean nodded. Of course he couldn't. He wouldn't dream of staying with one of the townspeople- he wouldn't dream of staying anywhere so close to the castle. He had to get out of Lawrencian land; he had to get far away from any place that was touched by King Azazel. He had to find his Father's farthest-reaching ally and begin to amass an army, so that he could come back. And he would have to do it alone.

"Cas is alright?"

Jo quirked an eyebrow at him. "Cas? Yes, Castiel is all right. He's sleeping." She nodded to the corner of the room, where Dean saw a ragged form curled on a pile of blankets. A small gray at sat nestled near the figure, sleeping in a beam of light.

"Cas," sighed Dean, and he tightened his grip on the hand he hadn't realized he was holding- Jo's hand. "I can't…" he started to say to her, but his eyes were closing even as they fought to stay alert. "Don't tell them…"

"I won't," Jo soothed, as she rubbed her thumb over the Prince's hand. Her other hand reached over him to pick up a small sachet of lavender and chamomile which had been tucked against his side. She slid it into the hollow of his neck where its light perfume would be able to ease his worried sleep. Humming quietly, she sat over him until his breathing evened out, and he fell away from her into dreams.

^*^*^*^ SPN ^*^*^*^ SPN ^*^*^*^ SPN ^*^*^*^

When Dean awoke next, it was to hushed voices and relative darkness. One side of his face burned with heat from a fire in the hearth across the room, and the aromas in the small cottage had become savory and warm, mixing with the familiar scents of leather and wood oil.

He opened his eyes and rolled his head towards the table at the center of the room. Jo and Cas were leaning over the table, packing various items into a set of old saddle packs. They spoke as though they knew each other well- almost like siblings.

"Jo, please. I want you to think hard before you agree to this. I can't reasonably say no, so the only option is for you to retract the offer."

"Castiel, what else are you going to do? It's the only thing we have of value in the house! Take it- if you don't, the Yellow Army will take it anyway, and it won't help anyone that way."

"Oh, Jo. I wish your mother was here." There was a heavy silence for a moment.

"I'm sure she'll be back," said Jo, after a long moment. Her voice wavered very slightly. "I'm sure she's just…" Another long pause.

"Yeah," whispered Cas.

They went back to packing, quietly, and Dean took it as his cue. "Um," he said, and his voice rasped with dryness and disuse. Cas and Jo's heads snapped towards him, both pictures of solemnity. "What is the hour?" implored Dean, moving to sit up.

Jo stepped towards Dean and put a supporting hand behind one shoulder as he raised himself off the bed. A spike of pain radiated from his side, and he gasped. In front of him, Cas appeared to take his right hand solidly in his own. Dean was silently grateful that neither one fussed or told him to lay back down- they were all aware of the gravity of their precarious situation, and they all knew that time was of the essence.

"We need to stitch your side, Prince Dean," said Cas with raised eyebrows. "In fact, we should have done it hours ago, but we can't put it off now. That wound won't stay closed by itself."

Dean closed his eyes and nodded, one hand coming up to his suddenly throbbing head. "I need to get out of here as soon as possible. I have put you at risk for too long."

Jo hunched over the fire, gathering something out of a boiling pot of water. Cas led Dean away from his palette and toward the table by his hand as if leading a frightened animal. "Yes, you do need to leave, my _prince_," agreed Jo. "As much for your own safety as anyone else's."

"Jo has found us another horse," said Cas, motioning Dean to sit on a high stool at the table. "We are packing what we can for the journey. We need to get out tonight. The Yellow Army is patrolling the village. It's a matter of time before they make their way here."

Dean looked at the table. It was covered with linen-wrapped packages, the smell of spicy dried meat wafting from some of them. Several long kitchen knives, which Dean blearily remembered from the night before, lay out on a long leather belt. Strips of leather had been hastily applied to the belt with waxed thread, creating makeshift sheathes. Along the far edge of the table was a sword, crafted in what was now an outdated style, but rust-free and oiled- clearly a well cared-for weapon. Near it was Gabriel's green bow, which Dean had picked up off the battlefield, and a pile of clean linen clothing.

"We?" asked Dean, tearing his eyes away from the provisions on the table. "I can't lead refugees," he admitted ruefully as Cas began to unwrap the long strips of linen from around his chest and belly. He hissed as Cas bumped his arm, a frankly alarming shot of pain leaping from his side to his fingertips.

"No, just us," Cas stopped what he was doing for a moment and looked at Dean in confusion. "You and me. My lord."

Dean took in kitchen boy's visage- he wore the black leggings and boots that went with his Castle Lawrence servant's uniform. He had disposed of the tunic and undershirt- it would be dangerous to wear such symbols in this frightening new world, and they were probably too bloodstained from their tragic adventures, anyway. He wanted to question the servant's loyalty. He wanted to comfortably assume that if he went with the boy in his wounded state, he would be sold for thirty pieces of silver to the nearest member of the Yellow Army.

But the thing was, he didn't think that Cas would do that. For some reason, some deep, organic reason, he found himself trusting the man with more of himself than he had thought possible. It was conceivable, he supposed, that his innate trust was as simple result of the stress they had been though together the night before, completely a figment of biology that had reared it's head through a mixture of fear and blood loss, but somehow he didn't think so. He kept running through his feelings toward the man in his head, trying to sort out where physical dependence ended and faith began, but kept on running into the same feeling that had surged through him hours before, when he had looked up as Castiel, bathed in firelight, sitting atop Dean's own horse, holding out his hand in an act of pure, instinctual loyalty- _I now have at least one man in my party_.

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and nodded slightly. "You and me," he repeated mechanically, and when his logical brain screamed for him to reconsider, he silenced it- _there will be time for that_, he thought- _but for now, the initial battle is not over. I must retreat to safer ground_. Castiel was kneeling before him now, slowly removing a soaked wad of cloth from Dean's side. "The hour," said Dean in a pinched voice as he breathed through the pain of Castiel's movements.

"Just now sunset," said Jo, returning to the table with a bowl containing a bone needle and a length of silken thread that she had pulled from the boiling water. "Cas will fix you up, and then you should rest for a bit- eat something, if you can. And then you need to leave. Spend as much of the night creating distance between you and Lawrence as you can."

"We'll go through Twyfory Wood, I think," said Cas, his eyes flicking towards Dean as he carefully cleaned around the deep, seeping wound in Dean's side.

Dean's eyes fluttered and he breathed slowly, with controlled breaths. He was a commander, damn it! Why did it feel like the world was whirling before him? He placed his right hand on his knee and lowered his left onto the table to keep it out of Castiel's way. Slowly, he opened his eyes and fixed them on Jo, standing behind Cas. "Okay," he breathed. "What are our assets?"

She raised an eyebrow and a smirk threatened at the corners of her mouth, but she walked around the table and began to list supplies. "We have rations- probably enough for a week for two of you. I found a couple of saddles, and Wings, of course." She smiled to herself, clearly proud of her skills in acquisition. "We put together sheaths for the knives, I re-fletched a few arrows, but we only have ten. And then there are blankets." She looked up at Dean. "Will that do, your highness?"

Dean made a face and looked down at Castiel, whose hands were hovering over Dean's side. "Go ahead," he said quietly, and Cas nodded. Dean hissed as the needle plunged into his already inflamed and hurting side, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. He dragged in a breath and looked at Jo. She had removed her cheeky expression, and was observing the proceedings with something like pity.

"You can't wear your fancy armor," she said, her eyes not leaving his side.

He huffed in something like agreement, or irritation. "Because it bears the marks of my house, or because it isn't real armor?" he asked, his voice thick with disdain. "No, I should think that would be a poor choice indeed. I'll need- _ahh!_" Dean's right hand instinctively shot out and grabbed Castiel's wrist, effectively holding the offending needle hostage.

Cas looked up at him apologetically, and in the relatively low light of the cottage, his eyes looked huge, and deeply, darkly blue. _Almost the blue of the Lawrencian flag_, thought Dean. He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "I'm sorry," he said to Castiel. "I just- I need a moment." He sat for a few more seconds, regaining his composure, and released Castiel's wrist. "I'm sorry," he said again as Cas bowed his head to resume his work.

"Is there any other clothing in the house that you could be so kind as to provide me?" asked Dean carefully, his eyes flicking towards Jo.

She nodded, her eyes looking doleful. "I have some linens. It's a good thing your boots are still good- I don't have any other boots that would fit you." She lifted a few neutral-colored garments from the table. "And I also have this." She carefully lifted the sword from the table, looking at it soberly. "It was my fathers." She stared at her reflection in the shining blade. "I want you to take it."

Dean looked at her, and tried to convey to her through his expression that he understood her sacrifice. He didn't think that she was the kind of girl who required florid prose. "I understand," he said with a respectful bow of his head, "and I thank you for you generosity, for the generosity of your entire house." He was probably flattering her, he knew, but it was better to assume that someone belonged to a house, at least it was when dealing with free men. He supposed that he didn't really know how to address serfs and peasants, now that he thought about it. He was just relieved that he hadn't inadvertently disrespected her, and was silently thankful when she ended the conversation with a nod and quietly sheathed the blade.

Dean nodded again, and sighed in relief as he felt a tugging at his side that indicated that Castiel was finishing up. _At least he does quick work_, Dean thought.

"We should probably burn the Lawrencian uniforms," suggested Castiel, and Jo hummed in agreement. He stood, holding his bloody hands out before him so as not to stain his fresh clothing. "Do you have anything else that suggests your identity?" he asked Dean.

Dean leaned his head on his arm, which was supported by the table. "My ring," he said, holding up his right hand in illustration. A gold ring circled his third finger. Sapphires glittered around the crest of the House of Winchester, and a shining diamond studded the very center of the intricate carving. "But I can't part with it. It's all I have to prove my position, and is a family heirloom and is the only seal of my title, besides. My signet ring."

"Every soldier, bounty hunter and thief is looking for that ring right now," said Jo darkly. "The soldiers want it as proof of a kill, the bounty hunters want to turn it in to King Azazel, and the thieves want to sell it and move to Albion."

"I have to keep it safe," reiterated Dean.

"I don't think you should wear it," said Cas, leaning his hands over a cooling pot of water. "If you were to be caught, it would immediately confirm your identity. We could leave it on a corpse, and they wouldn't go looking…"

"I _have_ to keep it safe," Dean insisted, a touch more forcefully than before.

There was a quiet moment.

"Will you let me wear it?" asked Castiel, quietly. He looked intently down at his hands as he scrubbed them.

Dean dropped his hand to the table and looked at him. Jo did the same. "Explain yourself," said Dean, without anger.

"If I'm wearing it, then if anyone finds us, they will think I'm you. They won't be able to identify you to your enemies."

Dean wasn't sure weather to be angry or surprised or even proud. He couldn't understand this servant's loyalty, and he couldn't understand his own sense of trust in him. He shook his head. "I have to keep it safe," he intoned.

^*^*^*^ SPN ^*^*^*^ SPN ^*^*^*^ SPN ^*^*^*^

An hour later, when Dean's side was again wrapped and he wore a light linen shirt. He and Castiel ate vegetable stew with mutton in silence while Jo watched out the window warily.

"Well," said Dean, looking across the table at Castiel's intense eyes. "We can't stay here forever."

"No, my lord," said Castiel, holding the Prince's gaze.

"And I suppose now is as good a time as ever."

"Yes, my lord."

Dean supposed that the kitchen boy's continual usage of the words "my lord" would eventually become tiresome. Dean supposed that it already had, but when he opened his mouth to correct him, he found that he no longer had the energy for what was, in essence, a cosmetic battle.

As they walked out into the garden, Dean found himself inordinately pleased to see his horse. "Lampblack," he sighed with a tired smile. He directed Cas as the man threw a saddle on each of the horses, and leaned against the timber of the cottage as Jo and Castiel loaded the horses. The second horse that Jo had found, Wings, was an ashy gray mare with charcoal colored mane and tail and hazely eyes. It was clearly a ranging horse, and Dean was aware in the back of his mind that Lampblack wasn't made for deep dark forests. His large warhorse was made for roads and fields and carrying armored men into the lines of other armored men. He wasn't meant to be out tracking, picking through underbrush on lean limbs and weaving between close trees. It was a problem that may come up, and Dean listed it in the back of his mind on a list titled "liabilities," which included his side and Castiel's lack of equine training.

Dean had Castiel strap the sword to Lampblack, knowing he would be unable to bear its weight in his injured state. When the loading was done and the moon was rising, Dean threw Gabriel's bow and the quiver of arrows on his back, and was surprised to hear a word of protest from Castiel.

"Give me that," said Cas sharply.

"The bow?" asked Dean, confused. "Can you shoot?"

"It doesn't matter if I can shoot! That bow belongs to Gabriel!" He took a few quick steps toward the prince.

"I know! I gave it to him! Gabriel is my falconer!" Dean didn't step back, but he did adopt a conciliatory pose.

"He's my _brother_," snapped Castiel. "It's the only thing left that was his!" Dean blinked in surprise, and tilted his head, considering.

"Look, I understand that it has emotional significance to you, but it just makes sense that I carry it," Dean reasoned, even as he unslung it from his back and held it out before him. "If I see prey, I can shoot it. If I see strangers, I can hold them off. If you make a play, I can cover you, even before I can get off my horse."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, looking between the bow and Prince Dean's face. He was clearly tempted to simply take the bow from the man, but stopped himself long enough to see Dean's logic.

"If I let you hold it, and I'm not letting you have it, I would let you _hold_ it- what would you give me in return?"

Dean's mouth quirked into a smile. He could see Castiel's game, and he respected how it was played. It took him a moment to weigh the consequences of his next move, but when he made it, he felt no regret. Sighing, with an affected air of defeat he removed the signet ring from his finger and held it out to Castiel, dropping the bow to his side.

Castiel smiled, a wry smile, as if he had found the one funny thing left in a world filled with murdered princesses and pariah princes. "That's a reasonable trade," he said, and slipped the prince's ring onto his own finger.


	5. I Have Not Dreamed This Dream Before

**Author's note- Woo boy- short, whumpy chapter here. I hope you like it. I have another chapter ready, just needs to get edited. But I wanted to post this now, so you wouldn't have to wait.**

**So, here's the thing about horses- I know a bit about horses. A bit. They fascinate me, but scare me. Face it- they could kill you if they wanted to. I once knew a girl who was really, really brilliant with horses, and she used to insist that there were two ways of being with a horse- you could either- **

**A- slowly learn to ride them, and hate it and love it and hate it alternately as you went, learning the discomforts and peculiarities along the way. Eventually, one day, you would realized that you had sort of learned how to read the horse, and you would start working together on each ride.**

**B- have an intense "birthing" moment with the horse, as you both adjusted to each other through an intrinsic connection. These sorts of things really only happen to people who really know horses, I have to assume.**

**The first time Cas meets Dean's ride, Lampblack, he had an unintentional B moment with him. It won't happen again. Now, he's back to square one, and he's going to learn this in the A method.**

**Also- Lampblack is a destrier- a kind of Medieval War Horse. Really big, very powerful. Wings is a courser- sort of a little lanky horse used for hunting. Good at going over different types of ground. Just in case anyone was curious as to what was going on with that.**

**All that being said, you should know- I really don't claim to know anything about horses, really- I'm just sharing what I do know. Please don't flame me with regards to anything I just said. I love you guys. **

Castiel wiggled in discomfort on the back of Wings, the horse that had been unexpectedly produced by Jo earlier in the day. It was his second time on the back of a horse, and Cas was just beginning to suspect that he didn't like it.

He was, at first, fascinated by the differences between this lithe gray mare and Lampblack, as the Prince's stallion had turned out to be named. When Castiel had been vaulted onto the back of that animal, it felt at first as though he was riding a comet. Later, after the arrival of Prince Dean, it had become like a raging river under a raft, forceful and wild, but changeable and responsive, surging into directions chosen by it's talented rider. Wings, by contrast, felt more like he had thought riding a horse would feel like- varying in speed and basic direction according to her own will while perhaps vaguely aware of a presence on her back, but most likely not. She trotted over roots and wove between trees with what looked like enviable grace, but in practice was a shocking rough and bumpy ride, with lots of pitched turns and sudden stops to investigate bunches of grass. Prince Dean had tried instructing him at first, urging him to rock his hips forward and feel her movements through her reigns, but Castiel found him somewhat less helpful than the Prince seemed to think he was.

"You will never have as easy a time as you did with Lampblack," cautioned Dean, with a touch more mirth in his voice than Cas found polite. "He's been trained his whole life to handle well in battle. Your little mare was most likely ranging horse." Cas wondered again where Jo had gotten his "little mare." He hoped that it wasn't anywhere that would get her in trouble- but then, in second thought- if she _had_ committed some sort of crime to get the horse; he was even now leaving with the evidence.

Their first few hours passed in a mixture of tension and worry- Castiel found himself constantly peering into the darkness in an attempt to observe the Prince's features for signs of pain while the Prince stared West, toward the village, looking for any sign of firelight that marked sentries, or worse- patrols. The forest thickened around them, obscuring more and more of the world with every passing minute. The leafy coverings grew pervasive and ever higher, creating a strangely cavern-like space around them. Castiel had never been so deep into the wood- the few times he had left the Castle Lawrence grounds since his arrival in that land had all been to a nearby town for trading with Ellen and a group of Lawrencian servants and guards. It was a two-day's walk south along a broad, open road.

When they could see the moon at it's zenith peeking through the black roof of foliage above them, Dean made a clicking noise at Lampblack, and the big horse slowed to a walk. Wings trotted up alongside the Prince, and Dean reached out and laid a hand on Castiel's. Some sort of magic, as far as Cas could tell, radiated from the Prince's hand through the reigns, and Wings slowed to a saunter shoulder-to-shoulder with Lampblack.

"Why are we slowing now?" asked Castiel, genuinely curious.

"It's midnight," said the Prince in a low voice, nodding toward the sky. "No one is following us, we've made good progress- we don't want to tire the horses. We may need them to bolt later on."

Cas nodded, even though he knew the Prince couldn't see him. He wanted to insist that Dean stop- he wanted to check his wound and change the bandages and rest his own aching hips and back- but he knew that the Prince wouldn't assent to such an idea.

The thought of the bandage wrapped around the Prince's waist wrenched Cas' mind back to the night before, and he flinched as he recalled the first time he saw- really _saw_- Prince Dean's awful wound.

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It hadn't been until he was nearly at Jo and Ellen's cottage at the edge of Twyfory Wood when he had taken a wrong step and jarred the Prince's fragile composure, causing him to let out a wrenched cry of pain. The arm around Cas' shoulders tensed, and Dean's grip wound into his tunic.

The abrupt movement almost sent Castiel to his knees, and he was suddenly aware of sticky warmth against his side. Sliding carefully down toward the ground, Cas lifted the arm from around him and moved to untie Dean's other wrist from Lampblack's reigns, where it had been lashed at the Prince's insistence hours earlier.

The sheer amount of blood that had washed over Castiel and the Prince had been enough to make Cas weak in the knees. When he peeled back the Prince's tunic and looked at the wound itself he couldn't believe that Dean was still attempting to walk. "What's the order?" asked Prince Dean, only barely conscious. His right arm curled up against his chest, laced with bruises and rubbed raw from the reigns that had twisted around it.

Cas looked around the encroaching wood helplessly. He had his tunic, and the Prince's. He could slice one up and create a sort of bandage, no matter how meager a bandage it may be, but the sense of vulnerability he felt was stronger than anything he had felt before in his life. The empty land around him felt like the canvas that covered a target for Gabriel's archery practice. And Jo and Ellen's cottage was so very near.

Sighing, he gently lifted Prince Dean's aching right arm and began looping Lampblack's reigns around it. The Prince shuddered and seemed to deflate. He kept his eyes closed as he asked, faintly, "your order?"

Cas gulped and nodded. "Yes," he said, and his voice sounded strange in his ears. He knew that he was taking a chance with the Prince's life. They may make it to Ellen's cottage, or the Prince may die before they get there. _Or you could stay here and he will most certainly die- you wouldn't have to take any chances at all, _said a voice inside his head_._ "Yes, that's the order," Cas reiterated to Dean.

He slipped the Prince's arm over his shoulder and heaved him up. He could feel Dean struggling to help him as he did so, pulling hard on the reigns against the heavy form of Lampblack. "One more step," growled Castiel into the Prince's ear, and slowly, they began to move forward.

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It was surprising to think that moment had been less than a day ago from where they walked now, and Castiel would have liked to believe that Jo's balms and sachets and careful ministrations had done a week's worth of healing, he strongly doubted it. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion that it was the effects of a thick paste that had been slathered on the wound- "for pain," Jo had said, that was giving them this window of movement, of escape.

Jo had put together three more sachets of the paste for the journey- Cas had them tucked in a saddle bag, as well as two bound that Jo had wrapped with springs of lavender. "For sleep," she said, and apologized that she didn't have more of either packet.

The horses moved into a clearing and the world silently lit up with starlight. Dean clicked his tongue quietly and Lampblack slowed to a stop, immediately dropping his head toward the soft grass at his feet. Cas held Wings back at the edge of the clearing and watched as the Prince dropped his head backward onto his shoulders and gazed skyward. He seemed, for a moment, to be bathing in the pale light that fell on his hair and face, and Cas was struck for what felt like the hundredth time with how surreal the last several hours had seemed.

He didn't want to endlessly compare today to yesterday, or question again his motives for volunteering for this mad journey. His mind was too full already with worries about Ellen and Gabriel, with the soaring highs of flying on the back on Lampblack though fire and over fields, with the crushing exhaustion of all he had experienced in too short a time. Instead he watched Dean silently commune with the sky, and felt an unexpected surge of loyalty that came with being a man in the Prince's party.

After what felt like several long minutes to Castiel, Dean took a deep breath and looked back at him. "We are still a bit closer to the road than I would like," he said. "We're going to change direction, but I want you to know that I know where we are going, alright?" He gave Cas an imploring look, and Cas realized that he was waiting for a response.

"Oh. Yes," said Cas, nudging Wings toward the Prince. "I hadn't thought to question your direction, my lord." He felt a thrill, or maybe a kind of fear, whenever Dean addressed him directly, but he was also conscious of something else- a sort of fondness or respect for the mere act of being asked for his opinion of the Prince's decisions.

Dean smiled sadly at him, and Cas thought he saw the Prince decide something before he began to speak again. "Cas, my men call me Captain. My servants call me Lord." He looked at Cas pointedly, and Cas caught his cue.

"Captain. Your directions, _Captain_," he tried.

Dean smiled tightly. "No, Cas. I mean- you aren't really either." He frowned as Cas's confusion. "You were never given a weapon and shield and training in return for your loyalty, and you most certainly aren't at Castle Lawrence scrubbing pots anymore." Cas said nothing, but his face remained unsure. "You are my man, and I am yours. How about you call me Dean?" asked Dean, deciding to spell it out.

A smile quirked at the corner of Cas's mouth. "Dean," he said, nodding. Dean nodded back. "Cas," he said, and clicked his tongue at Lampblack. The huge black stallion tossed his mane and began to trot away from the clearing. Wings followed at an amble.

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As the sun rose before them, Cas became slowly but ever increasingly more impressed with his little horse. The ground that had been shrouded in shadow for their whole journey was becoming clearer, and Cas was pretty sure that he wouldn't have been able to navigate it on foot. Twisted roots, unexpected slopes and sudden pits covered the landscape, all rimmed with concealing ferns and other underbrush. Around him Cas heard water trickling from unseen rivulets and streams, and his fondness for Wings grew a bit more.

Ahead of him, Dean and Lampblack seemed to be having more difficulty, as evidenced by their frequent stops and sudden curving avoidances of obstructions. As the trees grew higher and closer, they had been forced to ride in single file, and Cas hadn't been able to see Dean clearly since they had stopped in the clearing hours earlier. He stared at the slope of Dean's shoulders and tried to imagine how the Prince was feeling and when he would stop to rest.

Castiel was shockingly, painfully _aware_ of himself. Even with his horse's impressive footwork, it had been a bumpy ride, and Cas _hurt_. His hips and lower back felt wrenched and exhausted, his hands were raw and chafed with the action of gripping the reigns. His thighs were achingly sore and even his shoulders and neck felt tight from the endless tense ride. He hoped that Dean couldn't feel any of these casual hurts in addition to his awful wound. He had to assume that the pain of riding went away with experience, or no one would ever get on the animals twice.

It had just occurred to him to ask Dean when he could reasonably expect to feel better when he noticed that something was wrong. Lampblack stalled suddenly, and seemed to hesitate before stepping down a small slope toward a glade alongside a quick, clear stream. Waiting for Dean's direction, the horse tossed his head lightly. Cas looked to Lampblack's rider, and saw him slump forward towards the horse's neck.

Cas scrambled from his mount's back as quickly as he could, hitting the ground harder that he thought he would with a hiss of breath. He thighs and knees screamed as he struggled to his feet and hurried forward. Forgetting to drop his reigns in his haste, he accidentally dragged Wings forward with him a step before he stopped to untangle the leather from his wrists.

Cas stepped up alongside Lampblack and reached for the Prince. Lampblack was a lot bigger than Wings, and even pressed forward against the horse's neck, Dean face was above Cas's eye line. Cas placed his hand gently on Dean's shoulder, and the Prince gasped, but kept his face hidden, his hands curled in Lampblack's mane.

"Dean," said Cas quietly, and the Prince turned his head toward his voice. Dean's face was pale and tired. His eyes slid in and out of focus and his jaw was set. "It's all right, Dean," said Castiel, and Dean closed his eyes tightly and pressed his forhead against Lampblack, stifling a sob. "We'll stop," Cas continued, reaching up to take Lampblack's reigns from Dean's hand.

Cas lead the horses down the brief ledge into the clearing by the stream, one set of reigns in each hand. Dean breathed tightly next to his ear, and Cas kept up a steady stream of soothing words. "We've come such a long way," he said in a voice that he hoped was both calm and hopeful. Dean's hand reached out and fell over Castiel's, over Lampblack's reigns.

"I want Sammy," he said in a small voice.

"I know," said Castiel.

_~_~_~ SPN _~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_ SPN ~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_ SPN ~_~_~_~_~_~_~_

Castiel tried not to look at the Prince as he changed his bandage. He was not surprised to see that the wound was seeping blood, the stitches pulled to the point at which they could be considered wounds themselves. Cas sighed and began to clean off the blood with a rag made from shredded Lawrencian tunics.

Dean took small, gasping breathes as Cas worked and looked about him, taking in the clearing, the stream. "I saw Gabriel flush out a damn wolf right here," he declared suddenly, and with a conversational air.

Cas looked up in surprise. "You have been here before?" he asked. "With Gabriel?"

"Oh, yeah," said Dean with a smile. "I hunt all over my woods."

Cas snorted at his indication of ownership, then he thought of something- "Wait," he said, looking at Dean. "We are still on Lawrencian land?"

Dean chuckled, then winced, pressing a hand to his side above his wound. "And we will be for another day and a half, at least."

Cas thought hard for a moment, then explored the topic further. "Is Briory Commons on Lawrencian land?" he asked.

"The quarry market? Yes," Dean looked a little confused at the question. "It's one of the hazards of having a resource like a quarry- huge revenue, but you have to locate the primary market right next to it, if only for ease of trade. It would have been nice to have a market that size right at Lawrence- more defensible, but what are you gonna do?" Dean chatted conversationally, his voice only catching once or twice.

Castiel felt as though a chasm had opened between he and Dean- the _Prince_. He tried to picture the countryside as a hawk would see it. How far was the market from the castle? Was he further from home now than he was when he had gone with Ellen to buy ribbon and oils? Had he really not left Lawrencian land since he had first come to the castle?

"He did the most amazing thing. He had his bird track the prey the wolf was tracking…" The Prince was speaking. Cas snapped his head up. "The pelt is in my room." Dean smiled at the memory of the hunt. "And Victor tracked one of my kills, a hart, right through this very stream. That was a feast. Were you there?"

Cas felt something well in him. Frustration. Envy, perhaps. He remembered the days of Gabriel gone hunting the Prince's party, sitting alone in his room in the stables. He remembered feeding the fires under the huge ovens in the Castle Lawrence kitchen when the call was heard that the Prince's party was returning. Once, as Cas cleaned a deer brought back by a hunting party, his hand had snagged an arrowhead that had broken off within the animal's neck. He could still see the scar from where it had dug deeply into his palm.

"No," said Cas. "I was never there." Was it simple luck of the draw that had made Gabriel a guest at Dean's table with his men, while Castiel worked out of sight, deep in the bowels of the castle? Even as he thought it, Cas felt a wave of guilt rise within him. That same luck had made Gabriel viscerally, palpably _present_ during the rape of their homeland, had forced the boy to watch as everything he loved burned and he was forced into servitude, while Castiel's memory conveniently failed him. Perhaps that was a perverse sort of luck, too.

Dean could see something flicker through Cas's face, and immediately saw his mistake. "I'm sorry, Cas," he said quietly. "It almost like, if I don't really think about anything, it's all just a landscape that I know, and nothing has really changed." His eyes welled, and he closed them, raising a hand to his forehead. "It hurts, Cas," he admitted after a moment.

Cas shook his head, and his moment of self-pity passed away. "I've got something for that," he said, and took Jo's packets out of the pack beside him. "We don't have much of it, but I don't think we have to make hard choices about use until tomorrow, at least." Cas finished wrapping Dean's side, and scooted up to sit beside him, their backs against the extended roots of a huge, shady tree. For a moment, they just sat together and watched the horses drink from the stream and pull at the tufts of grass that poked out above the small dell.

"Why are you here?" asked Dean, and when Cas looked at him, he could see that the Prince's eyes were drifting closed. "Aren't all your friends back at the castle?"

"I hope not," Cas sighed. "I guess I think that there is a chance that Gabriel got away, or maybe captured…"

Dean snorted. "I doubt it. They couldn't hold Gabe."

"I guess I just have this… sense… that I will find my way home, but I had to leave to find it. Maybe I was meant to be in your… I was meant to be your man." Cas tucked his knees against his chest and looked over at the Prince. His eyes had closed and his breathing was evening- an indication that Jo's medicines were working.

"And I'm yours…." Dean sighed as he drifted to sleep.


End file.
